#c!quackity

[cyani07]

doodles

[fernlessbastard]

They're disgusting (they held hands after this)

[fenteii]

cquackity g10 existential crisis

amen to that

[mqrsss]

random sketch

[elmhat]

// dsmp rp

CW: implied alcohol issues

A couple of days after Dream’s prison escape—the real one, that was, not the little lie Sam had spun—Quackity found himself in an empty bar. It was a beautiful day. Sun shining, birds singing, all the usual shit. This place wasn’t really open yet, in technical terms, but if anyone had an issue with him being here, they wouldn’t for long.

He knew who had entered before he turned. Might as well get this over with. “Let me guess,” said Quackity, voice rough from disuse. “You still haven’t found him.”

“We’re still looking,” Sam confirmed. His armor sounded heavier than usual, in a place like this. It was streaked with blood. Not his. Not Dream’s, either.

Quackity took a slow sip from his wine glass, not really tasting it at all. “Then why are you here?” he asked.

Sam looked confused; he had always been slow on the uptake. “What do you mean? Like, you know he’s probably coming for you, right?” He watched as Quackity hung his head, staring vacantly at the gaps between his fingers. It was quiet enough to hear the air hissing softly through Sam’s mask. “Are you— Why are you so relaxed about this?”

With a snort, Quackity let his gaze drift back to his glass. Almost empty. The liquid sat still and undisturbed. “That’s funny,” he said. “That’s funny, Sam. That’s a funny thing to ask the guy you told he'd escaped two months ago.”

“You’re not seriously still on that,” said Sam, with a hint of accusation.

Quackity’s good eye twitched. He pushed himself up, stool scraping across the floor, and sauntered over to Sam without a care in the world, a slight sway in his step. “You think I should’ve moved on?” he asked. “Of course. No, of course that makes sense. Of course you’d think I should move on, that’s what you told me with, uh, with Karl and Sapnap and all that, right? When I came crying to you like a little bitch?”

Sam cringed. “That’s not even— You know this is different, Quackity. I mean it, I’m not kidding around, Dream’s out there. This is serious.”

“Exactly. Exactly. This is serious, everything’s always serious. That’s why you lied to me, right, ‘cause you took your job seriously. In order to protect your precious fucking prison.” Quackity stuck a finger into Sam’s shoulder, who promptly shook him off in disgust.

“That’s enough wine for you, Q. You can’t fall apart right now, you cannot.”

“No, I think I’m feeling just fine, actually.” Quackity returned to the bar, running a hand along the wood. “This whole thing, everything— it’s taking over your mind, Sam, like fucking always, so now you gotta choose. You’ve gotta make your choice. Either get your ass back out there and fail at finding Dream again, or take a fucking seat.” He patted the stool beside him, taking a deep swig from his glass until there was nothing left. And he grinned.

“Because you know what, Sam? We’re both dead men anyway. Might as well have some fun before the world fucking burns.”

[c0rv1dco]

Commission for @thecodedsystem !

My commissions are OPEN click here for info and pricing

@routeriver @bdaycheesecake @evren-sadwrn @goooser @plnetl @snails-are-made-of-jelly @kuprisunshka

[bidoofenergy]

(obsession) why can't i leave

on: quackity and schlatt and a home that mauls you

created for @marrow-and-bone as part of @mcytrecursive

inspired by When the Sunlight Dies

@wormbus-art (x) | "Inferiority complex" - @tapeworrmart | @screenshotsofdespair (x) | "vengeful" - Richie Guzmán (@99centmenu) | "Do Not Bring Him Water" - Caitlin Scarano | “The Night There” - Mahmoud Darwish | "always together" - Franco Anselmi | "tension" - @glaciallis | "love is not always song, but the swelling" - Athena Nassar | New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001 - Czeslaw Miłosz

[lessonduo]

HER WIFE IS HERE

[i-dont-know-i-just-like-dragons]

[andhyssops]

Your name is Wilbur Soot.

You don't technically have an invitation to this party, but technicalities have never kept you out of Las Nevadas. The air is cool, the night is young, and a hand penned letter is burning a hole in your pocket.

It is not a love letter, but you feel compelled to deliver it in person.

This visual novel contains:

0.5 - 1 hour of gameplay

5 unique endings, based on the course of your conversation

1 psychocompetitive rivalry

0 love letters

[banner art by @cyani07] <3

You can play This Is Not A Love Letter for free here on itch.io!

[fxshbonezz]

This is actually the best image ive ever fucking made

[ladyddanger]

thinking about the events of the dsmp hundreds of years later being just a bunch of stories.

In a village nestled between tall pines children play Manberg Vs Pogtopia, the names of nations and reasons for war long forgotten as they hit each other with sticks and tackle their friends to warm summer grass.

When their mothers tuck them in that night they tell them stories of a snowy wasteland, so ancient it still holds the scars of long wars forgotten. They tell them of the wasteland’s inhabitant, the greatest warrior this world has ever seen. His name is lost to history but warriors still pray to him on the eve of battle and tie ravens feathers in their hair in his honor.

If the children misbehaved that day their mothers tell them a different story, one of a masked man who steals bad children and drowns them in the sea.

There’s a crater a few miles east of the village in the middle of the marshlands up by a glittering ocean. The crater is so deep that you can throw rocks off the edge and never hear them hit the bottom. Legend says that once upon a time the goddess of death had a son who walked this earth and when he died in her rage and grief she tore into the city that once stood there with her bare hands and ripped it from the earth leaving nothing but a crater behind.

On long sunny evenings in the inns that dot the coastline bards tell stories of a cursed city of gold and glass buried in the heart of a desert where it snows. They whisper the city is full of riches but nobody who looks for it ever comes back.

On stormy nights the Bards tell a different story, a story of a town that sits over a slumbering god. Strange things happen there. Red vines sport up over night. If you listen closely, the people say you can hear them talk. Everyone there has red eyes and cold cold hands.

If you start at dawn and ride in the opposite direction of the carter you can reach the vault before nightfall. The locals claim it used to hold a faceless god guarded by a king but time has weathered the vault’s defenses and the towns children dare each other inside its walls, running though the tight passages.

An old fairytale says if you follow a small barely visible path from the doors of a vault beyond you’ll reach a forest full of trees so overgrown they block the sun. The fairytale says if you walk to the heart of the forrest there’s a prince sleeping there, nestled in the flowers and weeds. The fairytale says his true love and his knights are long dead. The fairytale says he dreams the whole world in existence. The fairytale says a lot of things but nobody really believes it.

[fernlessbastard]

Have a couple random older Q sketches

[fenteii]

c1 or 2 for c!slime :3 and if u also wanted a color palette then Kermit :D

aint he polite looking?

[coconut12999]

somewhere down the line, they attempt to reconcile. just before wilbur leaves to utah. it goes as you would expect.

[paragal]

i heard this in their voices